


Stowaway

by FrostyChess



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Feels, I have an idea so it wouldn't be totally surprising, I hope I've done this imagine justice, I'll maybe make it a two-shot, One-Shot, Reader-Insert, Well I think I have, acimagines, because it's great storytelling, but not really, i'm so sorry to do this to you, imagine, so that's all that really matters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3558320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyChess/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine - You, the daughter of a government official, have always been instructed on how to compose yourself and what was expected of you. Not entirely satisfied with your life and craving a taste of freedom, you decide to sneak aboard the first ship that you see: The Jackdaw. Over the next few months, you and Edward fall in love. He eventually finds out who you are and has to make the hard decision to ransom you back to your family or keep you.</p><p>(Imagine from the lovely ACImagines tumblr).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stowaway

**Author's Note:**

> As this is my first imagine, it had to be an Assassin's Creed one. I saw this lovely imagine on the ACImagines tumblr and ever since it's been running away with itself. It's been a WIP for a little over a month - mostly because I forgot it was there and then I just never get time to write as much anymore - but I'm really quite happy with the way it's turned out. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. *peace sign*

This is _insane_!

You’re constantly looking over your shoulder, worrying that they’ll catch you before you even leave Kingston, and you know you look suspicious just from that action alone. A number of the guards around the island, standing tall in their ruby red uniforms, watch you as you hurry past but they don’t say anything. You’re not sure if they even recognise you.

You’ve wound your hair into a tight knot – a difficult feat in itself, with how thick and tangled your hair can get – and stuffed it under a hat. You bound your chest before you left the manor, just as the sun was peaking over the ocean. Sneaking out your window was more difficult but you’d managed it and were glad that you’d probably never have to do it again.

You arrive at the docks and begin to cautiously look around you, hoping to find some ship hiring or at least just leaving so you can stow away… That’s when you spot the brig, men scurrying about on deck. There’s no one at the helm and the quartermaster isn’t at the helm either. Perhaps the two of them are distracted on deck.

It’s your only shot, you reason calmly.  You have to get off this island – _fast_.

You manage to clamber aboard the ship with relatively little incident. Only a few members of the crew look at you, but most of them are too busy getting the ship ready to leave that they don’t speak to you. You wonder if they’re just assuming that you’re a new member of the crew. You _hope_ that’s what they’re assuming.

You manage to find your way below deck, looking over your shoulder for the slightest thing, the slightest movement, and before you know it you’re hiding behind some barrels of rum in the cargo hold.

 _Please let no one remember that I boarded_ , you pray. You’re curled in on yourself on the floor, stomach churning in anticipation. The ship is bobbing from side to side, that familiar feeling that you haven’t experienced since arriving in Kingston with your family, after your father’s promotion.

You hear yelling from the deck – a loud voice that rises above the cheering. He sounds Welsh, you think idly, eyes drifting shut tiredly. You didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, overthinking just everything that could go wrong today but now you’re here – now you’re finally _leaving_!

You breathe out a sigh of relief and throw your head back against the barrel behind you.

You’re finally doing it. You’re finally escaping your confined life, finally breathing in the fresh air, the smell of _freedom_. You wrinkle your nose somewhat. Freedom smells awfully like rum and gunpowder.

You comb your memory for any and everything Jonah told you about sailing before he left for the navy. You wonder if you’ll see him again. You smile, thinking about the look on his face when he sees that you actually _did_ it. No one doubted you more than he did. And no one will be more surprised than him.

You manage to nod off there on the floor, thinking of how you’re going to rub your success in Jonah’s face when you see him next.  

* * *

 

When you wake up, blinking the sleep from your eyes, you have to stop yourself from screaming.

There are two men kneeling in front of you, watching you curiously. You swallow fearfully, watching them as closely as they do you. They aren’t moving. One is frowning, eying you up and down. He looks to his friend, nudges him.

“Told ye I wasn’t imaginin’ it,” he says. The other one hums, gets to his feet. You can’t find your voice to defend yourself – why did you think this was a good idea again?

“We should tell the cap’n,” says the one standing. Fear grips your heart and you scramble away from the two of them. The one kneeling falls over in surprise.

“Whoa, wait!” he shouts. He reaches for you but you smack his hands away and run, putting as many barrels between the two of you as possible. You’re so focussed on the one who reached for you, the one watching you and trying to calm you, that you don’t notice the other one running for the stairs.

The one remaining has his hands raised, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. You won’t take your eyes off him, too afraid that that’s what he’s waiting for. You don’t know why you’re so scared – you knew this would happen eventually, knew you would be caught out. But this is far too soon for your liking.

“Easy, lad,” says the man. He’s still holding his hands up, trying to calm you. You almost flare up in indignation at _lad_ when you remember how you look, remember that your hair is wound out of the way and your face is hidden by the hat. The man continues, “We’re not goin’ t’ hurt ye.”

You step back, hiding in the shadows and your eyes dart to stairs as the other man from before returns, a blond man in tow. Everything about this new man screams that he’s in charge and your heart races. He’s wearing a strange navy and white outfit, something you wouldn’t expect to see on a Captain of any vessel. His dark eyes watch you bemusedly and there’s a smirk on his lips.

“Well, what’s this,” he says. He folds his arms across his chest. He doesn’t seem worried about you at all. You swallow again, heart pounding and stomach churning. The man in front of you turns to the Captain, lowering his hands finally.

“Cap’n,” he says, surprised.

You’re waiting for the Captain to decide to throw you overboard, to tell them you don’t mean a thing. You don’t even know how long you’ve been in the cargo hold for and if they force you on deck, you won’t have any idea which direction they’ve sailed in. You’ll have no idea where you are and you’ll have no way of returning home, no matter how much you don’t want to.

You’re not above begging, if the situation calls for it.

“If you wanted to join the crew, you just had to ask,” the Captain says suddenly, bemusedly. You jolt, staring at him, meeting his eyes. He still doesn’t seem worried in the slightest. You want to run, although you know there’s nowhere to go. He adds, “Can you sail, lad?”

They still think you’re a man. This could either work out well, or badly, you think. They’ll definitely find out eventually. You nod shakily. The Captain frowns.

“Cat got your tongue, lad? What’s your name?”

The smirk has fallen from his lips now and he’s watching you carefully. You’re waiting for him to figure it out, waiting for those bright blue eyes to look you up and down. He looks far too intelligent to be a sailor. You struggle to find a name to give him and then you worry about how your voice will sound. Instead, you don’t say anything.

“I think ‘e’s mute, sir,” says one of the other men. He looks at the Captain, eyebrows raised. You look between the three men opposite you with wide eyes, eying up the pistols strapped to the Captain’s chest and the two swords hanging at his hips.

“Aye, it would seem so,” replies the captain. He’s looking at you quite studiously now and you wish more than ever that it was darker down there, that you could fall back on the darkness and hide forever.

The Captain surprises you by ordering the other two to return to deck, leaving the two of you alone. A heavy feeling settles in your stomach as you watch the other two leave the hold, leaving you alone with this young Captain.

“So, _lad_ ,” he says. You have a feeling that he _knows_. “What possessed you to stow away on my ship?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the words to say. You know that he knows, there’s no way he couldn’t. He’s smirking again and you watch him carefully, waiting for him to reach for a pistol or a sword or _something_. Instead, he leans back on a barrel and watches you.

“I know you’re not mute,” he says exasperatedly. With wide eyes, you remain silent, waiting. Will he shout for his crew? Have you thrown in the brig? Your heart pounds and you crowd yourself against the shelving behind you when the Captain steps forward.

“Easy,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

For some reason, some crazy, insane reason, you believe him. You cautiously step forward, into the light, grateful that your hat still hides your face. You know then as soon as you meet his eyes that he _knows_. He smirks.

“So, what’s a pretty lass like you doing aboard my ship, eh?” 

* * *

 

The Captain drags you along behind him but he’s careful not to be too harsh. It’s odd, you think, that he’s the only one who realised that you are a woman, even with your preparation and disguise. He’s a smart one, you think, and you’ll have to be careful. But he hasn’t had you thrown from the ship yet, so that’s a good sign.

You look around you as he drags you on, eyes darting around the deck. No one is paying you any attention, too busy working to keep the ship afloat. There’s a black man at the helm – the quartermaster you think, or the helmsman – and he seems to be the only one paying you any mind. You look up at the sky, bright and blue, not a cloud to be seen. There’s a splash of black that you can see out of the corner of your eye-

Your heart stops.

Out of the all the ships in the bloody harbour, it had to be a bloody _pirate ship_!

He opens the door to what you assume must be his cabin and leads you in. Knowing that he’s a pirate captain makes the situation worse and you’re suddenly more fearful. He shuts the door, locks it for good measure, then turns to face you. He strides past you in one swift motion and knocks your hat over your head as he passes. Your hair tumbles out and falls down your shoulder. You’re too shocked to realise it’s even happened. He doesn’t face you until there’s a good distance between you which is strange, you think. You could just run for the door and be out before he’s even –

“How far would you get?” asks the Captain, as if reading your mind. You realise you’re staring at the door to the cabin. You look away dejectedly. He continues, “Now, what made you stow away on my ship?”

Honesty is probably your best option here, you think. Lying could only get you killed. You swallow, wring your hands together and eventually meet his eyes. You try not to look overconfident, burying all of your “lady lessons” as deep down as possible. If he found out who you are, he might ransom you or worse.

“I ran away,” you tell him quietly. The Captain scoffs.

“Obviously,” he says. It looks like he’s growing tired of your evasive answers, getting grumpy. You shift on your feet, nervous and duck your head. You need to come up with a plan. You need to come up with a story that sounds realistic enough, something he’d swallow up and accept.

“I…”

Your voice fails you. You can’t think of anything to tell him, can’t think of a convincing enough answer. You ran away, that much is true and would be universally accepted. You want the freedom that comes only with being out at sea, that much is also true. But you can’t tell him _why_ you want that freedom so suddenly.

You think of Jonah, sailing with the navy. What would he think if he saw you now, trying to lie your way onto a _pirate_ ship? You take a deep breath, try not to overthink it. Jonah would just be glad you were alive, you reason. You have your wits about you and you’re intelligent enough to barter for your life.

“I wanted freedom,” you say finally, meeting the captain’s blue eyes. He’s studying you closely, curiously, and your heart skips a beat.

Now that you can see him in a better light, the captain is devilishly handsome, with dark blonde hair and scars. While the scars would affect the attraction of any other man, on him they seem only to enhance it. You shake your head, looking away when you realise the amused smirk spreading across his face.

 _Caught_ , you think pathetically, fiddling with your hair. You hear the Captain huff in amusement and watch him lean against the table.

“Well, I may be able to help you with that,” he tells you agreeably. You stare at him, surprised, and watch him shrug. “ _May_ ,” he repeats, seeing your expression. You try to school your relieved expression into a blank one, hoping to keep your emotions off your face. “Everyone on _The Jackdaw_ is here for the same reason as you but you have to prove you can hold your own.”

He eyes you up and down, and his gaze rests on your chest. He frowns and you lift your hands to cover your chest, almost self-consciously. He shakes his head.

“Have you bound?” he asks, nodding towards your chest. You nod wordlessly. He shakes his head, doesn’t seem too happy about that. “In our world,” he says and you instantly know he means the freedom of piracy, “it doesn’t matter that you’re a woman. As long as you can hold your own and pull your weight, you don’t need to hide.”

You nod. You won’t tell him just how grateful you are that he said that.

* * *

“What life did you live before this then, lass?”

It’s been a few months now, since you’d ran away from home, away from your life. You’ve been lucky enough to avoid having to go back to Kingston since them, lucky enough to remain on _The Jackdaw_ with Edward and his amicable crew. You’d been nervous after emerging from the captain’s cabin, worried about how the crew would react, but they’d been nothing but respectful, even to this day.

Of course, there was always one or two who didn’t agree with their captain, who felt you didn’t belong here. But Edward Kenway was _undisputedly_ respected amongst his crew and a few choice words here and there had you feeling safe and secure. Your spot in his crew was absolute now, unquestioned (or at least, not out loud). There are still mutters when you walk by, whispers about your position.

You hold your head high, ignore them. All that matters is that your captain thinks you belong there. The quartermaster believes you belong here. Other opinions do not matter.

You’re standing by the helm, sweating under the harsh midday sun. You fan yourself with your hand while thinking of an answer that won’t give yourself away. You shrug, grin at Edward. Adé is standing in his usual place, staring down at the crew and acting like he isn’t listening.

“I’ll admit,” you say, “I lived a _very_ good life before this one.”

You hope he’ll leave it at that but you’ve come to know Edward over these last few months and you know he won’t. He grins though, nods in answer.

“Vague,” he says, still nodding. “What made you leave?”

“I’ve already told you what made me leave,” you answer, turning away, looking out at the calm waters. Edward shakes his head, smirking now.

“No, you’ve told me why you _wanted_ to leave, not what made you leave.”

You nod, ceding his point. He’s right, after all. You’ve told him you want the freedom that comes with sailing, a freedom your parents would never grant you. You took matters into your own hands and ran. Edward had told you he agreed with that, agreed with taking your future with both hands and forging your own way.

Edward is still looking at you, one hand placed idly on the wheel while the other hangs by his side. His blonde hair hangs free today and his bright blue eyes twinkle mischievously. It’s a look you’ve come to associate with him, a look that wouldn’t seem right on anyone else.

You fold your arms across your chest, give another nonchalant shrug. Your hair hangs free like his, disguising your face. You hope that if it comes to it, your hair might help disguise your uncertainty. While you like Edward, and the two of you have become reasonably close, you don’t trust him enough to reveal the true circumstances of your departure from home.

You swallow. “My father finally pushed things too far.”

Obviously, you’ve piqued Edward’s interest. He looks at you with raised eyebrows. “How so?”

This is dangerous territory and you’re worried about slipping up, saying something you shouldn’t. You bite your lip, look away from his curious gaze. You shrug again, an action you’re getting very used to. Edward doesn’t look away. He’s very expectant, waiting for you to answer.

“We wanted very different things,” you tell him, meeting his eyes. “I wanted my life to go a certain way while he had already paved a… _vastly_ different path for me.”

“Sounds like a prick,” says Edward, scoffing. You can tell he’s joking. You stand straighter, riled up, and glower at the wood beneath your feet.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” you spit. You storm away before he can reply, ignoring Adé’s shocked look as you leave them alone.

Your circumstances for leaving home are not something you enjoy joking about, especially not with Edward. He has a knack for joking about it, acting as though you and your father’s differing opinions are not a good enough reason for you to leave. While yes, you may not be telling the whole truth, your relationship with your father is important, a big part of why you left.

You miss Jonah. You wonder what he’s up to, wonder how he’s doing in the navy. You’ve been fortunate to not run into him, fortunate to have to face the reality of what he’d say if he saw you now. You stop a little away from the helm, out of the way of the other crew members while you try to keep your emotions in check. Your eyes are watering and the threat of tears is a very real one.

You need a distraction, and you need one now.

* * *

The next few months pass in a flurry of cannon fire and harsh weather.

Edward is all smiles, never once asking about your decision to start life anew. It’s strange, being around him and knowing he’s no longer interested in finding out why you left in the first place. He seems to have forgotten about his interest, choosing instead to just _talk_ with you.

It’s a nice change of pace. It’s nice to not have to worry about him bugging at you about your past, to not have to worry about slipping up and saying something you shouldn’t. You’re not sure whether it’s just because you’re the only female on board and he feels _obligated_ to look out for you, of if it’s something more.

You hope it’s something more.

It’s no lie that Edward is attractive. You think he knows it too, if his abashing flirting is anything to go by. You can never stop your face from flushing every time he flirts with you in front of other, even worse when the company you’re with joins in.

Of course, being surrounded by other pirates doesn’t exactly help you. It’s not like they’re _gentlemen_. Except for maybe Captain Hornigold, you think. He’s always a gentleman when you meet him – you can still remember when you’d first encountered him, the way he’d bent to kiss your hand. The moment hadn’t lasted long, before Edward had come between the two of you and herded him off.

You weren’t sure why. You hadn’t seemed to be in any particular danger with Hornigold, he’d seemed perfectly polite. Unlike Captain Vane, who’d seemed harsh and uninviting. You’d decided then and there that you would try to stay as far away from _him_ as possible.

Edward had shared that sentiment, herding you away from them all. You got the impression that the ‘especially Vane’ was unsaid. Edward seems to like Hornigold, if the way he speaks about him was anything to go by, but he seemed especially sharp when speaking about Vane. Yet, whenever he mentioned a man named _Thatch_ , he always spoke with respectful awe, always got this far off look in his eyes. He apparently respected this man more than any of the others, probably more than himself.

However, the more you speak about Edward’s past, the more he probes into yours. Small questions here and there, things that would seem to be totally unimportant to anyone else but that set you on edge. The little things have a way of opening up doors about the bigger things. Edward seems to know that you are being purposefully reserved and the more you avoid answering, the keener he gets to learn these things.

You’re stood on the balcony of the Old Avery, side by side with your captain. It’s one of those rare moments of peace in Nassau. There are no bar fights happening behind you, no arguments, no _shouting_. You’re not drinking anything – some habits are difficult to break – but Edward is holding a bottle of rum uncaringly in his hand. You stand in comfortable silence, overlooking Nassau and watching the sea from a distance.

Things between you and Edward are getting _very_ comfortable. He stands closer to you than when you’d first arrived, your arms brushing. If he ever has to hand you something, his hand brushes yours, his touch lingers. When he looks at you, your heart flutters.

You’ve only ever felt this way once before, when you were younger, with a boy called John. As soon as your father had found out how close you were getting, he’d taken action. You’d never seen John again. You’ve never forgiven your father.

But now, he isn’t here to stop you. You can make your own decisions and you can decide who you want to be with, not him. You know your father would disapprove of Edward, and that thought excites you. He’d disapproved of John and had had the power to do something about it. Here, he’s powerless to stop you.

Edward takes a swig of his rum, turns to face you. He gives a crooked grin when he meets your eyes and you feel that familiar flutter in your stomach, feel your heart skip a beat. He leans forward on the railing, looks out to the sea. You swallow, turn your gaze there too. Nothing is said for a long time.

Then:

“I know why you refuse to talk about your past.”

You jolt. There’s a lump in your throat and Edward looks completely serious now, brow furrowed. He won’t look at you. You straighten, start to push off the railing. He can’t possibly know anything, you reason, it’s just not possible. You’ve been _careful_.

“We’ve been over this,” you say. You’re facing the tavern now, starting to walk away from Edward. He grabs your elbow before you take a step.

“I _know_ who you are,” he tells you seriously. He’s not sneering or glaring – he’s completely blank.

You hate it. You wish he’d start shouting and yelling, start glowering at you. You hate how controlled his expression his, how his eyes scan your face, looking for something you’re not sure of. Indignation flares within you and you pull your arm from his grip.

“Not here,” you hiss. You realise too late that your voice has changed, morphed into a controlled, regal tone. A tone that comes only with being taught from birth to be a _lady_. You watch as Edward’s eyes widen a fraction and realise now that you’ve just given him _evidence_. If he suspects what you think he does, you’ve provided him with the ammunition for it.

You know he’s following you when you leave the tavern. You pass Vane and Hornigold and Rackham, hear them say something to Edward that you don’t catch. You’re holding your head high, appreciating the effect it has on the pirates in the tavern. They move out of your way as soon as they see you and your posture, as soon as they catch the look in your eyes.

You lead him up the hill, to the windmill, and stop there. There’s no one else around, just the two of you. You take a deep breath and face him, waiting for him to start. You won’t start this conversation, you won’t willingly let him know why you ran away in the first place.

He’s quiet for a long time, regarding you closely. You’re reminded of the first time you met him, the first time he’d seen you. You’re reminded of his curious gaze when you were in his cabin, the first time he spoke to you. It feels like you’ve come full circle. It feels like you’re strangers again, feels like back in the beginning, when you’d been unsure about him.

You feel like you don’t know him anymore. You wonder if all this could have been avoided. If you’d told him the truth in the beginning, would it all be different?

“Why did you not tell me?”

Your voice fails you, like it did that first time too. Everything feels like the first time now. You open your mouth, but the words won’t come. You turn away – you can’t look at him. He looks so disappointed. You don’t know why.

He surprises you by saying your name. But not just your first name and not in the way you’re used to him saying it; in the friendly, agreeable way you’re used to, with the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and the wolfish grin. He says it coldly, harshly, with a scowl and a glare, directed at _you_. You bring your arms up, hugging yourself for comfort.

Edward can’t seem to remember that you’ve distanced yourself from that life, that your _father_ was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You know you’ve told him that before, _know_ you’ve said that much. While you’ve been reserved about the rest, you _remember_ telling Edward that your father had been the one to push things too far. How could he have forgotten that?

He says your name again, scoffs it, and turns away from you. You swallow, try to think of some way to fix this before it’s broken forever. You don’t want to stop feeling that flutter in your stomach, or the way your heart speeds up when he looks at you. You don’t want to lose this _life_ , don’t want to lose _him_.

“Edward.”

When his name falls from your lips, he freezes, and his cold gaze warms. For a moment, he seems like _Edward_ again, the Edward you’ve come to known over the past few months. His furious expression falls away and in its place is a gentle confusion.

“I was afraid,” you tell him quietly, now that he’s calmed down some. Edward stares at you, perplexed.

“ _Afraid_?” he repeats. His voice has risen and he’s angry again. “Of what?”

“Of how you’d react!”

Edward steps back as if struck and you turn away, throwing your hands up in the air. You want to cry, want to curl up in a ball and sob at your own rotten luck. He’s going to do exactly what you’d feared, perhaps worse, you think, with no thought to the time you’ve spent together. Everything you’d thought you’d seen over the last few months has disappeared, it was all a figment of your own imagination. He doesn’t care what happens to you.

His hand encircles your elbow again, gentler this time, coaxing you to face him. You refuse at first, try to pull away. Your eyes are watering, tearing up, and you’re embarrassed by how you feel. He says your name in the way you recognise, the way that makes your heartbeat speed up and your stomach churn with butterflies.

His voice is soft, quiet, when he says your name again, and it’s enough to make you face him. You swallow, waiting for the inevitable, but all he does is take your hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, surprising you. He’s looking at your entwined hands and not at _you_. He asks again, gentler, “What were you afraid of?”

This time you’re the one who won’t meet his eyes. You can feel them searing a hole into your skin with their intensity, waiting for your answer.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly, feeling pathetic. “I guess… when I found out you were a pirate, I was afraid you would ransom me if you found out.”

He grins, that roguish, wolfish grin you long for. “Now, that’s not a half bad idea.”

Given the circumstances, your heart skips a beat, horrified that he might actually do it. Fear consumes your being and you meet Edward’s playful gaze with a wide one of your own. Instantly, he knows he’s said the wrong thing, and he reaches out to comfort you.

“Worry not,” he says, huffing a laugh. He pulls you to his chest, holds you close. “I’d never actually give you _back_.”

It’s a strangely comforting thought. Encompassed in his warmth, you close your eyes, inhaling his scent. He smells of rum, not surprising, and the ocean, also not surprising. You long to get back out on the _Jackdaw_ , wishing you were far away from Nassau. You find yourself speaking the inevitable truth.

“If you ransom me, my father has ways of making sure I get home.”

Edward scoffs, still holding you close, chin resting on your head. You want to pull away from him, force him to take this seriously. When he speaks next, you know without looking that he’s grinning.

“I’d _never_ let him keep you.”

You’re relieved to hear that, relieved to know that on some level, your feelings are reciprocated. You’re not sure if his feelings for you are romantic, like yours are for him, but knowing that he’d come and get you if your father found you is encouraging. But you have to ask the question, you have to know if he’s _actually_ going to ransom you or not.

“What are you going to do?”

You’ve known Edward for months now, had enough conversations with Adé to know how greedy Edward can be. He’s also far too reckless, far too willing to do something stupid on the off chance it will turn profit. Part of you is afraid he will go through with it.

Edward is quiet for a few moments, wearing a considering expression. Your heart skips a beat. You tell yourself you’re allowed to be a little frightened, a little worried about how the rest of your life is going to turn out. Edward could throw a curveball right here and now, tell you he’s going to ransom you and send you home, get you out of his hair.

Oh, how you hope he doesn’t say that.

After a long while, he says, “Well, I’m not giving you back.”

It’s an answer, at least, but not a solution to the problem. You’re about to voice this, about to start complaining about how he needs to take this _seriously_ when he does something that stops the words on your tongue.

His mouth on yours is a surprise but not an unwelcome one. His lips are soft and his kiss is gentle but firm. You’ve been wondering how his kiss would feel for a couple of months now and it’s everything you’d imagined and more. His tongue darts into your mouth, battles with your own, waking you from your dream. You’d been so surprised that it had taken a few moments before you even realised what was going on.

His hands have moved to your waist, holding you steady. You realise you’re on your tip-toes, aching for more. When he pulls back from you, you almost moan at the loss of contact, forgetting what he was distracting you from. You want to hit yourself for being so easily diverted from the problem at hand.

You don’t want to run the risk of ransom but part of you knows that Edward _will_. Any chance to better his future, better his _life,_ is a risk he is always willing to take. You don’t want him to convince you into this – you know first-hand that your father is not someone to be treated lightly. You don’t want anything to happen to him or the crew.

“It’s been months,” you tell him breathlessly. You lean back when he tries to capture your mouth in a kiss again, trying to stop your reasoning. “He hasn’t found me yet. What if he isn’t looking?”

Edward groans, frustrated, but answers. “You have a reputation. He’s looking for you.”

“How do you know?”

“A friend let me know.”

You don’t ask which friend, don’t ask how long he’s known for. You hadn’t known you had a reputation and you _definitely_ hadn’t known that your father is looking for you. How have you managed to go so long without him finding out?

“Maybe he thinks I stowed away on a merchant ship,” you ponder aloud. “If he thinks that he won’t have realised I –“

“Wrong,” cuts in Edward. He’s stepped back and he’s wearing a serious expression. You frown, staring at him with confusion. He doesn’t answer your confusion, just waits for you to realise yourself.

“He didn’t accuse pirates first, did he?”

“He did.”

Well that changes things, you think miserably. Now Edward has a _reason_ to ransom you, to ask for money. It’s the only way to cover up the fact that you ran away. Your father won’t accept the truth anyway. Your father won’t be happy until he sees Edward hanged for daring to captain the ship _you_ stowed away on.

“I could just tell him that I ran away,” you say pathetically. Even to you, it sounds ridiculous. “I’ll tell him I ran away for a life of piracy.”

“Aye,” agrees Edward, surprising you. “And do you really think he’ll accept that?”

You don’t have to answer him. He already knows what you’re going to say. You already know that that reason won’t fly with your father. Edward kisses your forehead, pulls you in close again. You feel like crying again, feel like breaking down at the impossibility of it all. You won’t endanger Edward of any of the crew but you know that any choice Captain Kenway makes will be followed by them.

As long as there’s money involved at the end, they’d follow him to hell and back.

Any other time, you’d be impressed with their loyalty, but not right now. Edward doesn’t look the least bit worried. He pulls back, takes your face in his hands. The skin is rough and calloused, but his touch is soft and gentle, and his gaze is equally so.

“I already told you,” he says. He’s smirking again, looking completely comfortable and not at all worried. “I’m not giving you back.”


	2. Breakaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Edward enjoy some bliss, before the unthinkable happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was some fairly high demand for this, and I finally figured out what I was going to write. The first of two extra parts. (eventually) enjoy!

Adrenaline pumps through your veins and excitement and fear churn in your gut in equal measures.

This isn’t the first time Edward’s taken you along with him on one of his escapades; this _is_ , however, the first time he’s done something ridiculously conspicuous and wound up with the two of you fleeing for your lives from Spanish soldiers.

You’re sure Edward’s gotten in trouble like this a great many times before – hell, you’ve been on the Jackdaw when Adé’s had to take over and do his job as quartermaster because Edward doesn’t seem to grasp the meaning of _blend in_ – but he’s usually so careful, especially with you.

Especially now that your father has taken measures to ensure your quick return to him.

There’s straw in your hair and on your clothes and your heart is pounding. You still haven’t quite recovered from before, from Edward’s quick and fleeting kiss, the distraction he needed to shove you from that roof and into the haystack below.

Your scream had caught in your throat and your heart had pounded so hard you were sure it was going to beat right out of your chest. And he’d _laughed_ at your reaction and grabbed your hand like it was completely _normal_ to throw people off _rooftops_.

The Jackdaw is in sight with Adé at the helm and even from here you can see the disappointed look on his face.

 _It’s not my fault_ , you want to scream, even from so far away when your voice will be lost on the wind, _it’s not my fault_!

“There’s the boat,” you gasp instead, your fear giving way for a couple of seconds to remind you of Edward’s pet peeve. You want to smirk and laugh in spite of it all because the look he throws you over his shoulder doesn’t belong in this situation; too carefree, too playfully irritated when all the two of you should be able to feel right now is terror.

Terror because if you’re caught it will mean leaving Edward, leaving Adé, leaving the Jackdaw, leaving the family you have found in the pirates of Nassau.

Edward hauls you aboard as quickly as possible and the Jackdaw’s casting off before you’ve even got your breath back. Edward’s laugh is breathless at first, his hands clutching at his sides until he’s laughing loudly and drawing the attention of the crew around you.

You want to be annoyed but as the shouts of the Spanish dwindle into nothing and disappear under the creaking of the sails and the whistling of the wind, you find it’s impossible to battle the smile crossing your own face. Your laughter is hesitant at first, the last of your nerves still lingering in the pit of your stomach and making it impossible for you to feel at ease, but eventually your laugh joins his and Havana is far behind you and forgotten.

“Captain,” Adé greets, and if you weren’t so used to him you’d think he sounds a little hostile, “I trust all went well.”

“Aye,” returns Edward, and you roll your eyes in his quartermaster’s direction, sure that Adé himself knows a lie from his Captain’s lips when he hears one. Things very much _did_ not go well and you’re sure Adé knows so.

“We made it back to the boat, at least,” you say quietly, but loud enough for Edward to hear you as he takes the helm from his quartermaster.

The same playful irritation crosses Captain Kenway’s face, accompanied by a thinning of his lips and the tightening of his hands on the helm.

“Aye,” he agrees. “We made it back to the _ship_.”

“We nearly didn’t,” you continue and then, waspishly, recalling Edward’s earlier actions, your heart in your throat, the _haystack_. “Is nobody going to comment on the fact that you threw me off a roof?”

Edward’s answer is a simple, unconcerned shrug. “You’re fine though, right?”

His concern is so _very_ touching.

* * *

 

As soon as your feet hit the warm beaches of Nassau, you are content to never again leave its shores.

You’ve had quite enough excitement to last you a lifetime, you’ve decided, and the safety of these beaches is all you want for _at least_ another month.

You tell Edward so, and try to ignore the irritation that pulses through you at his scoff.

“We’re pirates,” he says, like it’s the answer to everything. “We don’t stay on land for too long, lass.”

“Speak for yourself,” you retort. Your glare has very little heat. “I’m no pirate.”

“Oh?” Edward settles on the sand beside you, close enough that your arms brush one another. The touch sends sparks through you, a flush across your cheeks. It shouldn’t – you’ve been in much more intimate situations than this, of course – but somehow just being near him affects you in ways you could never have ever imagined.

You know, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one else will ever affect you in this way.

“Perhaps I should write to your father then,” he suggests lightly, and his tone tells you he’s not serious – he wouldn’t dare to be, not after all the trouble he’s going to ensuring you stay with him. “Tell him where to collect you because you’re no _pirate_.”

Even still, you bite at the bait he holds before you.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you utter, and while you try to keep your voice carefully neutral, there is still that lingering worry in the back of your mind, that inconceivable thought that Edward will tire of you, of the problems that come with you, and abandon you to your father.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then Edward says, “No, I wouldn’t.”

Relief is instantaneous and liberating and you realise your worries are for naught. Edward will never abandon you, he’s told you so himself, in the dead of night and in the flickering candlelight, wrapped around each other and swaddled in the blankets from his bed.

The captain’s cabin is surprisingly cosy, you reflect absently, distractedly, as your eyes trail over his form, stretched out next to you on the warm sand.

His eyes watch the Jackdaw as it sits on the waves, the crew bustling about on board before they can leave and enjoy Nassau at its finest.

Edward’s sea blue eyes are on you suddenly, shockingly fast, and you swallow nervously, for reasons you can’t define. It’s your turn to look away, to stretch out on the sand and stare absently at the Jackdaw as Edward’s eye burn hotly on your face the whole while.

You eye the decking of the ship, the sails, the scorch marks from an earlier fight after your hasty retreat from Havana.

“Have you seen the harbourmaster?” you inquire innocently, and then, with a sly, mischievous smirk, “Your boat needs repairs.”

His eyebrow twitches.

“Aye, I have,” says Edward. He gives no indication that he’s about to say more.

You turn your face bravely to meet his eyes. His stare is heated, irritation mingling with something else that you _know_ is the reason for the quirking of his lips and the minute inclination of his body towards yours.

“The crew are going to start repairs on the _ship_ tomorrow,” he says and your heart skips a beat. Repairs on the Jackdaw usually mean Edward with his shirt off, those glorious tattoos on display for all to see; _especially_ you and you’ve no qualms about sitting out the way and just _watching_.

Watching is never boring when there’s a sheen of sweat covering his tanned skin and his rippling muscles are on display.

“So when do you think your _boat_ will be sea worthy again,” you test, smiling innocently, so innocently that you can practically see the light gleaming from your halo.

“She already is, lass,” says Edward, and you can hear the tautness in his voice, the strain to keep civil as you push his buttons. “Call her a _boat_ one more time –“

“Or what?”

You watch him huff quietly, watch the wheels turn in his head before finally he seems to decide on something. Another taunt is on the tip of your tongue but before you can voice it Edward is pushing you onto the side and his face is hovering inches from yours.

His hands pin yours to the sand before he dips his head to press his lips to yours, taking your breath away and halting whatever cheeky words you planned in your throat. It’s heated and dizzying and you’re waiting for him to start shedding his weapons and coat and just _take you_ right there – and, honestly, you have _no_ objections to that – when he stops.

“I think you know _what_ ,” he murmurs breathlessly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, tracing flowing patterns soothingly and you reach up to kiss him again.

Voices approach, whoops and hollers fill the air, and the two of you break apart. Your cheeks are flushing; you’re still not quite used to the vulgar nature of the pirates of Nassau, their easy acceptance of less than proper behaviour.

“Now, now,” calls Benjamin Hornigold, “don’t stop on our accounts.”

“Shove off, Hornigold,” returns Edward and he slowly and reluctantly gets to his feet, taking your hand to help you to your own.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as the two of you turn to greet the newcomers.

“Thought I saw your brig,” says Thatch lazily, “I’d know that beaten piece of shit anywhere.”

“Beaten she may be, Thatch,” says Edward, and you squeeze his hand gently, “but she’s still afloat. Reckon she could take yours in a fight right now.”

“Careful Kenway,” says Blackbeard, and it doesn’t sound like playful banter between friends anymore, not to you, even if Edward and Thatch are wearing easy smiles and they’ve known each other for years.

“Stop puffing out your chest for your lady, Kenway,” cuts in Hornigold. “You’re not impressing anyone.”

You beg to differ. Edward impresses you just by walking into the room.

You manage to pluck up your courage around these intimidating men to add, “Actually Edward’s _very_ impressive.”

Thatch’s barking laughter sets your face flushing again but Edward’s pleased chuckle is all you need to know you’ve done right by him, even as you bury your face against his chest, his strong arms tugging you close to him. You get the impression he’s staking a claim, and you’ll probably call him out for it later, but right now you appreciate his concern, even around those he might call ‘friend’.

“Lass,” says Ben suddenly, drawing your attention, and you’re so shocked at being addressed that you can’t think of anything to say. You don’t need to, you find, because he continues, “I believe Anne wanted a word.”

Of course she would, you think, it’s been months since you last saw one another.

You nod gratefully to Ben, smiling sweetly, and untangle yourself from Edward. With a quick peck of your lips to his cheek and a promise to see him later, you depart from the beach and the safety of Captain Kenway’s arms, and begin to make your way towards the Old Avery.

The three men left on the beach don’t start speaking until you’re far enough way to only hear the low rumblings of their voices and no distinctive words.

* * *

 

Anne Bonny engulfs you in a hug and immediately starts to talk your ear off.

Your body is in the Old Avery but your mind is still on that beach with Edward and his companions, curiosity prickling at you, worry settling in your gut. There’s something not quite right, you can feel it, but sitting outside the tavern with a mug of untouched ale and some much needed female company, you try to ignore it.

It appears Anne has been desperately craving the same female company, for she doesn’t seem to have noticed your dazed and distracted look, nor the disinterested hums you’ve been giving at occasional intervals.

You take your leave when Jack Rackham saunters towards the two of you, interrupting your conversation with little regret despite the slurred apology he gives, and you’re more than happy to leave, eager to seek out Edward once more.

He must be finished with the other two, you think, and whatever important business they’ve discussed will be over and done with.

He’s in the same spot you left him, alone now and drawing circles in the sand with a long and crooked stick. He’s glum, you note, staring absently towards the horizon and the Jackdaw, silhouetted by the setting sun. You settle beside him, humming contently as his arm comes around your shoulders to draw you closer, the action given hardly a second thought.

“What’s troubling you?” you ask after a couple of beats of silence.

He doesn’t speak for a long while and you watch as he angrily tosses the stick aside, his glum expression becoming agitated, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. He draws you down with him as he lies back on the sand, his hand drawing patterns on your back in the same lazy manner as he had a few hours ago.

He shakes his head. “Thatch needs my help.”

You frown; this doesn’t quite answer your question. Edward and Thatch have a strong relationship, one you don’t quite understand, but this can’t be the source of his frustration; Edward has told you before that he owes much to Thatch, and the opportunity to help him would not be spurned.

“It’s going to be dangerous,” he reveals after another pregnant pause. “I can’t take you with me.”

 _Oh_. It’s a kick in the teeth, to be sure, and you’re left completely dumbstruck and lost in a way you haven’t felt since Edward found out about your father, about _you_ , and you’d been left afloat wondering what he was going to do about it.

For all your complaining about sailing with the crew and being on the Jackdaw, you can’t quite imagine what it will be like to remain on dry land and watch it sail away without you. It’s unfathomable and you find yourself curling towards him some more, clutching him tighter as though afraid he’ll leave tomorrow.

He can’t, you know this, because the Jackdaw is in no state to be leaving Nassau for another long stint at sea, but you also know it means he’ll be leaving soon, and possibly a few months on end.

You swallow and force yourself to ask the inevitable question.

His sigh is long and tired. “As soon as the Jackdaw has been made sea-worthy.”

You nod against his chest and finally sit up, forcing yourself to retract into the shield you created in Kingston, in the house your father owned. The shield you wore to protect yourself from him, from his verbal assaults and accusations; it’s still strong, you realise surprisingly, even after so long of not having to wield it.

“How long will you be gone for?” Your voice remains steady, not unsurprising, but you can hear Edward’s hissing intake of breath, hear his clothes rustle as he sits up, hands coming to your arms, rubbing them comfortingly.

“Four months,” he says, “at most.”

You nod wordlessly. There’s nothing you can do to stop him; the decision has already been made. You knew it when you saw him on the beach, drawing with that stick, knew it as soon as you saw the agitation. Hell, who are you kidding? You knew it as soon as Hornigold and Thatch came to meet him on the beach, not an hour after your arrival.

“I’ll still be here,” you tell him, trying to smile reassuringly, trying to give him the hope that’s waning within you. “I will.”

“Aye,” he says softly, burying his face in your neck, breathing you in as though you haven’t got a couple of days yet. “And if you’re not, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

* * *

 

You watch until you can’t see the Jackdaw anymore, until it’s a little pinprick no bigger than your thumb and so far away that you’re sure Edward can’t even see Nassau anymore from the deck.

You want to believe, as ridiculous and inconceivable as it is, that he watched Nassau growing smaller and smaller as you watched his boat – _ship_ , you correct yourself, but the voice that does so sounds like Edward and it’s reassuring and amusing – getting farther and farther away. He can’t have, this you know, because he doesn’t have a helmsman, not in the way you’ve seen the other pirate captains have.

 _Keeps me alert_ , he’d told you when you’d asked, with that wry grin and that confident countenance. He’s never steered the Jackdaw wrong yet, you reflect, and he _always_ comes back to Nassau.

“Kenway doesn’t know the treasure he’s found,” muses a low voice behind you, forcing shivers to crawl up and down your spine and regrets to rise to the forefront of your mind. Why didn’t you insist that Edward take you with him, damn the danger? Why didn’t you insist that he not leave you alone?

Charles Vane saunters towards you with a grace you would never peg him to have, eyes dark and clouded with danger watching you lecherously. You’ve never once felt safe with this man, not ever, finding him far too vulgar and reckless for your tastes, but you’ve no one to back you up here; Edward is gone and so is Thatch, the only two on the island who might have protected you from this impetuous Captain.

“He knows,” you force yourself to say, worried that a refusal to answer might only lead to further complications.

Vane inches closer to you and turns his eyes towards the horizon. The Jackdaw is gone and you’re truly alone.

“If he did,” Vane muses, and he faces you once more, “he would never have left you here.”

He doesn’t bother hiding his lewd gaze as it trails up and down your body and you’re uncomfortable and realising that _now_ is the time to leave.

“He had no choice,” you say and your voice shakes. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Pah,” says Vane. “Kenway just lacks the balls to make sure you’re kept safe.”

Anger flares within, an irritation and a fury writhing inside, a necessity to defend Edward, to defend him until your last breath – which, if you’re left alone with this man for much longer and your mouth gets away with you as it sometimes does, will be along shortly.

“Edward protects me well enough,” you bite at him, hands clenching and unclenching into fists at your sides.

“You sure he’s left you here for your protection, girl?” queries Vane, in a low and growly voice as he steps towards you, crowding into you and invading your personal space. “You sure he just hasn’t grown sick of you and decided to let you down easy?”

“Stop it,” you murmur quietly and your hands rise between your two bodies, pushing at him insistently until he steps back, your face calm and indifferent, the mask you’ve perfected after years of living in _hell_.

“That’s enough, Vane,” calls another voice, and if you’d had any reservations about Benjamin Hornigold before, they’re completely forgotten as he storms into sight. The wind has picked up, forcing the tails of his navy blue coat behind him, and there’s hellfire in his steps and a stone cold scowl directed at Vane.

“Aye, aye,” says Vane uncaringly, waving at Hornigold dismissively. He casts you one last, lingering stare over his shoulder. “If you want a _real_ man’s protection, lass,” he says in farewell, “you know where to find me.”

“Never you mind him,” says Ben. His hand is on your shoulder, comforting, and he’s guiding you away from the Vane and towards the other end of the beach, away from the harbourmaster and civilisation, where it’s quieter.

You blink owlishly at Hornigold, with his arm still around your shoulders and the rough fabric of his naval coat at your back. The touch doesn’t feel as comforting as it should but then you’re sure any touch that’s not Edward’s will not satisfy you. He catches your look of dazed confusion and grins.

“You didn’t think Kenway would leave you alone, did you?”

You didn’t truthfully, but you hadn’t expected Edward to ask Ben to look out for you, not when he’s spoken so fondly of someone else – _Kidd_ , if you recall correctly – and so unkindly of Ben as of late. There’s tension between the two of them, you’ve felt it, and you’ve heard their raised voices and heated arguments in the tavern.

Ben Hornigold, you think in all honesty, is probably the last man you’d expected Edward to have watch over you while he’s gone.

“No,” you force yourself to admit. You keep your other thoughts to yourself. “Thank you.”

He inclines his head. “For a pretty woman, anything.”

Your cheeks are dusted with pink at the compliment, because you’re still only a woman and Hornigold is still a fairly attractive man – in the tall, dark and handsome way, the polar opposite of Edward, _your_ Edward, who you’d never change or give up, not for anything – and while you may not be close enough to consider Ben a friend, he and Edward were close once, and might still be, so you have to accept the compliment.

It’s quieter along this side of the island, away from the rowdy pirates and their drunken allies, but the person you’d rather be sharing this peace and quiet with is out at sea, far away from you, and it doesn’t feel quite right to share it with someone else, even someone like Ben Hornigold, the _gentleman pirate_.

The words are a comfort – a little comfort but a comfort nonetheless – and Hornigold is still holding you close to him, with an arm still throw carelessly over your shoulder as the two of you walk in companionable silence. You’re glad he’s not forcing conversation upon you because you’re not quite sure you can think of anything to say.

You want to be back at the Old Avery with Anne despite the fact that Jack and Vane will be there too. You want to be with civilisation again, because the companionable silence doesn’t feel so comfortable the further away you get, not in the same way it would with Edward or Anne or anyone else.

There’s something not quite right here and the shivers are crawling up and down your spine again, the alarm bells beginning to ring in your mind.

Something is not _right_ here.

“I think we should go back now,” you say calmly, and how you manage that is a miracle in itself when you feel like screaming, when your heart is pounding against your rib cage and you can _feel_ that things are tense. “I’ve really appreciated the company –“

“Just a little further,” presses Hornigold. His arm tightens around your shoulders, imperceptibly so if you weren’t so highly strung as it is, and now you know there’s something not right, something this man, this _gentleman_ is hiding from you.

“I must insist,” you say, forcing the two of you to a stop, tugging yourself free of his grasp and thanking god for what you think might be the first time in your life for your upbringing as a _lady_ , a woman of society.

“Now lass,” says Ben – no, Captain Hornigold, because there’s a difference, you realise, and Edward always referred to Ben as a friend, an ally and a mentor, but this man standing before you, with hands raised defensively and reaching unsubtly for the pistol at his belt is no _friend_. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

 _Let’s_ , you want to say but you’re unarmed and defenceless and it’s your own damned fault for trusting this man when, really, you realise now, you should have trusted _Vane_.

The thought is a kick in the gut, terrifying and ruefully realised, because Vane might just be the last person to see you alive if Ben has his way.

He uses the pistol to direct you towards a small rowboat you can see on the shore now, the cluster of men lingering like flies around a dung pile, and amongst them you can see a familiar face, one you were sure had joined the navy –

“Jonah?” you whisper fretfully, because this man is different, like the difference between Ben and Hornigold. This man looks nothing like the one you remember, with the youthful eyes and smile, the same smile he sent your way as he left Kingston and went off to join the Navy.

This man looks cruel and cold, surveying you for injury with indifferent eyes and not budging a muscle as he gestures two men forward to escort you to the rowboat. You’re so shocked that you don’t start struggling until you see Jonah approaching Hornigold, until the men’s grip on your arms turns like steel and will leave bruises.

You start to shout and thrash, trying to wrench yourself free as they forcibly carry you into the rowboat. And over the top of it all, you can hear Jonah, see the appreciative smile he and Hornigold share and the words exchanged between the two of them.

“May the Father of Understanding guide you,” Jonah tells Ben, and the words mean nothing to you but they sound like a death sentence.

They echo inside your head as you’re forced onto Jonah’s ship, anchored on the far side of Nassau, away from the pirates. They echo and linger as you’re shoved forcibly into a cell below deck.

You don’t begin to forget them until the orders above deck are being shouted and the ship is setting sail, far away from Nassau and Hornigold, and far away from the place you told Edward you’d wait for him.


	3. Castaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader arrives in Kingston and tries to remain hopeful of a rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil grin* enjoy.

The ship is making good time, much to your chagrin.

You’ve had plenty time, here in your cold and dark cell, curled into a ball against the farthest corner, to ruminate on your circumstances and the betrayal that led you here. You keep playing that moment over and over again in your head; Vane turning his back and you can hear his taunting words clear as day in your head, mocking you. You should have gone with him, should have seen past that intimidating and brusque demeanour – you should have placed your trust in the man who deserved it the least.

Instead you’d trusted Hornigold, believed his lies that Edward had asked him to keep an eye on you, to _protect_ you, and now it’s been months and it’s _crazy_ , utterly _crazy_ , but you recognise the waves the ship sails upon – you’re coming up to Kingston, you _know_ you are.

You don’t know what you expected; some daring rescue from the man you love? The ship you’re being held captive upon to be suddenly beset by pirates, by the Jackdaw herself? No such miracle has occurred, no matter how much you’ve prayed for such a thing – prayed to anyone who might listen but your prayers seem to have fallen on deaf ears; a bad omen, you think, for what’s to come.

The voices above deck seem unbearably loud – you can’t remember the crew of the Jackdaw ever being this loud – and above them all you can hear Jonah, bellowing his orders in a voice you don’t recognise, a tone so indifferent and cold that if you hadn’t seen his face yourself, you’d never believe it was him.

 _I’d never actually give you back,_ Edward had told you, what feels like years ago now. _I’d never let him keep you_.

It can’t have been more than a few months since his discovery of your identity, since you began to live in blissful peace with the man you’ve grown to truly care for, with the man whose promise of protection has never faltered before.

“Damn you, Hornigold,” you murmur again, because this isn’t the first time you’ve said it; you’d shouted and screamed it at first, what little good it did, and then you’d said it periodically through the day for a time, over and over until now, where it’s said through chapped lips in a voice that’s croaky and broken from disuse.

You’ve seen no one save the scraggly little man who enters with your meagre portion of food twice a day, with the mug of water that’s crawling with filth.

 _I’m not giving you back_ , says Edward’s voice and if you close your eyes you can almost see his face; the tanned complexion, the sea-blue eyes glittering with mischief as he hovers above you, appearing so pleased to see you, so pleased that you’re _his_. You can almost feel his lips against yours, soft and insistent, can almost feel his hands as they roam over your body, as they hold you close under the covers in his cabin.

“Edward,” you whisper, and you scrub at your eyes with your dirty shirt, stained all over with questionable substances, “where are you?”

You’d held onto his words, held on _tight_ , but the further away you got from Nassau, the closer you get to Kingston, you’re losing faith. Four months, he’d told you he’d be away with Thatch – Jonah had taken you in the evening of his departure, when the Jackdaw was on the horizon with no intention of turning around.

How long have you been here, in the darkness of this cell, hidden away in the depths of this ship? Has Edward returned to Nassau to find you gone yet? Will he pursue?

 _I’ll hunt you down myself_ , he’d told you honestly, determinedly, but he’d also said he’d protect you, that he wouldn’t give you back, and those words turned out to be hollow and meaningless.

You blink back the tears, adamantly refusing to shed anymore, willing yourself to be strong; for Nassau, for your friends there, for _Edward_. He will come for you, you tell yourself once more and you’ve said the words aloud so many times you’ve lost count, he will come for you.

“He will,” you whisper again, in the same broken voice that’s losing hope with each league of the sea that’s put between the two of you. “ _He will_.”

And you don’t know  _how_ you know but you do; before the shouts even fill the air, the cheers, the order from their captain – you know you’ve reached Kingston.

* * *

Your father sweeps you into a hug that you don’t return, barely there as it is and staring blankly at the wall behind his shoulder.

This isn’t your father, this isn’t the man who half-raised you, this isn’t the man who sent pirate hunters after you and demanded your return. This isn’t the man you’ve known your whole life, the man whose barely ever paid you any heed, the man who acknowledges your existence only when it benefits him.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, and he should really be given an award for this performance, you think bitterly, hearing his tight voice and seeing his watery eyes. Not once have you ever been so loved by him, _never_.

Jonah inclines his head humbly and doesn’t meet your eyes. There’s something else at work here, you know this, you’ve known since Hornigold and Jonah shared those words on the beach – _may the father of understanding guide you_ – and your anger is on the tip of your tongue, in the clenching of your fists.

Your father pulls you into another hug, squeezes you briefly; anyone else would perceive it as a second hug between father and daughter, a grateful father embracing his lost and returned daughter. You feel only the threat it carries.

Your father murmurs his gratitude once more, draws away from you briefly to clasp Jonah’s hand in his own, promises of rewards on his lips. You keep your stare resolutely ahead, towards the large house at the top of the hill, the empty halls and cheerless rooms unwelcoming after the freedom you’ve received with Nassau, with _Edward_.

You watch dispassionately as Jonah leaves the two of you, another incline of the head to your father and no words said to you, and he strides towards a man at the end of the harbour; you see a beige coat and a head of dark hair, a scar on the right side of his face that spider-webs across his whole cheek. You don’t recognise him and you don’t turn your eyes away as he looks you over; you don’t shrivel under his hard stare as you feel you might have before Edward, before your brave escape from Kingston.

Your father puts an arm around your shoulders and you tug yourself away from him sharply, lips curled in a snarl as you glare at him. You can almost feel the scarred man’s eyes on your back but you can definitely hear the whispers around the harbour, horrified and confused, just as confused as you feel.

Your father has never cared for you in this manner, your father has never once tried to put his arms around your shoulder before. He looks alarmed on the surface but underneath it all you can see it; the humiliation, the _anger_ , and _there_ ’s the man you’ve known your whole life.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says and doesn’t it sound forced, you tell yourself wryly. You can see the fire behind his eyes, can see his own fists clenching as he stares you down, the threat he tries to veil. “Let’s get you home.”

 _Home_.

 _No_ , you think, _that house on the hill is not my home. Nassau is my home, the Jackdaw is my home, Edward is my home._

Your father’s hand on your arm is steel, forcing you away from the harbour, further away from freedom, further away from Edward, and back to the gilded cage at the top of the hill.

* * *

So close, yet so far away.

Your balcony doors have been locked, the key removed from your reach, and you can see the sea, can see the sun reflecting off the waves, the ships sailing into port, but you can’t get to them.

This is how you escaped last time; you took your life in your hands and climbed down the wall, scratched your palms all to hell and slipped and lost your grip the last five feet or so. Your father has learned from that mistake; removed your means to escape and ensured your isolation and imprisonment.

A guard pokes his head in every hour or so to ensure you haven’t escaped – how could you possibly? Every available exit has been covered! – and there is no sympathy in his eyes, only strict indifference and a willingness to follow orders.

After the first few tries, as humiliating and useless as they turned out to be, you’ve stopped acknowledging him, and instead keep your back to the door, your eyes fixed pointedly on the locked balcony doors and struggling to adjust to the suffocating dress you’ve been forced into.

It’s hard to believe that near a year ago this was your norm, dresses so tight they made you appear stick thin, dinner parties of little thrill and gossiping ladies with naught much else to amuse them. You’re used to shirts and breeches now, boots caked in dirt that stomp on the deck of the ship as you stand by Edward at the helm, a salty breeze that ruffles your hair as you kiss lips that taste of rum.

In a few moments you’ll be escorted to dinner, if memory serves correctly; your father has a schedule he keeps to and you doubt you’ll be allowed to dine alone as you used to, distancing yourself from him. You’ve lost that luxury, lost lots of luxuries, none of these willingly.

Your guard doesn’t knock.

“Miss,” is all he says, brusquely, unkindly, and at your lack of response he storms into the room and grasps your arm, dragging you to your feet.

Your father isn’t alone; Jonah sits opposite him, beside him the scarred man from the harbour. Your father doesn’t greet you as he did when you were escorted from the ship and Jonah remains stubbornly silent as well, nothing like the man you’d known before.

The scarred man, you’re surprised to see, is a very different story.

He stands, draws your chair from the table for you, and says, “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Woodes Rogers.”

 _Ah_ , you think, _the Governor of the Bahamas._ Yes, you’ve heard of him; none of them good things. You introduce yourself and pointedly pull out the chair closest to you, furthest away from the men and staring impassively at the shining wood before you. The Old Avery doesn’t have tables like this; the wood there is scratched and rotting, dried up and falling apart.

 _It has character_ , you can hear Anne saying in your head as Rogers settles once more in his chair.

“I apologise for her behaviour,” says your father and the mere sound of his voices sets every one of your nerves on edge. You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the window, to the sea, to wind in the sails of the ships leaving the harbour. “She’s spent too long among those heathens. Forgotten her manners.”

You scoff, loudly, angrily, and snap, “I still have my manners. I’ve just yet to find anyone that deserves them.”

Your father’s hand slams on the table, an action that ordinarily would have cowed you, made you cower before him and shrink back in your chair. But now you’ve seen worse things; hurricanes and cannon fire and bloody battles aboard the deck of the Jackdaw.

He does not scare you anymore.

And he knows it.

You meet his stare head on and he looks away first, for what you think might be the first time in your life. Any fears you’d had with Edward, any fears that you’ve had before being forcibly returned to this dreadful place have been left in the hull of the ship that carried you here.

You will not break, not again, not when you’ve spent so much of your time away from him building yourself into a better and stronger person.

The food set before you is a reminder of your previous position within this household; it’s piping hot and piled on the plate and nothing like the meagre meals you’ve been used to receiving on Nassau, with Edward and Thatch and Anne and Vane. You consider momentarily, pondering on the possibility of turning down the meal, shoving the plate away from you and refusing to eat at all.

But it’s a foolish thought, one with little guarantee of success on your part, and little benefit to you.

You may not have lost your manners but you’ve certainly long since stopped remembering your dinner etiquette. You pick up the wrong fork and knife, use your hands while you eat and while you can feel your father’s irritated glowers, can feel the stares of Jonah and Rogers, it only adds fuel to your raging fire.

If you can’t be in Nassau, you’re damned if you’ll forget the time you had there – and that includes the freedom of dining without the stipulations of _propriety_.

You’re dismissed as soon as you’ve cleared your plate – which suits you just fine. If you have to spend any longer than necessary with those men, you’ll kill them or, worse, you’ll kill  _yourself_.

* * *

Jonah departs a few days after returning you to Kingston, with no goodbyes and no recollection of the friendship the two of you once shared. You can’t say you’re mourning for its loss; can’t say you feel the same way you did when you thought about him months ago-

There’s a stabbing in your heart at the thought. The last time you’d thought of Jonah as a friend, it had been thoughts filled with excitement, looking to the future as you sailed away from Kingston, as you stowed away on the Jackdaw and started your adventure.

And what an adventure it turned out to be.

You watch his ship leave from behind your locked balcony doors, recalling the last time you’d watched him leave; it hadn’t been so long ago, watching his ship setting sail, taking your one friend away from you and leaving you truly alone. His departure had ignited the need for adventure within in, made you realise that you sought the freedom he was leaving for.

Your hands rest on the handles of the balcony doors, curled tightly around them, wishing desperately that you were stronger, that you weren’t so affected by all you’re losing, all that’s slipping through your fingers. The glass is cool against your skin as you rest your forehead on the pane and your breath mists the glass as you watch the ocean, as you ache for the freedom just out of reach once more.

You start to imagine the Jackdaw sailing into Kingston: you can almost see Edward at the helm, armed to the teeth and ready for war; Adé at his side, stoically calm and offering his sound advice; the crew, armed and ready, in position for the fight of their lives.

You close your eyes and exhale slowly, shakily, reminding yourself that you’ve cried all your tears – you have none left. They were wasted in the depths of the ship that took you away from them, from your life, from your family and your home, wasted on a situation you’d gotten yourself into for trusting the wrong person.

 _Damn it_ , you think, pushing away from the balcony doors and throwing yourself onto your bed.

Everything’s different now; you’ve spent so long away from this place that your bed is _too_ comfortable now, too soft, too _stationary_. You’re used to the hard mattress in Edward’s cabin, to the gentle rocking of the Jackdaw as you fall asleep next to him.

But now you’re alone and lost and angry at things you can’t control anymore.

 _No more tears_ , you tell yourself again, fisting your hands in the sheets. _He’s coming for me. He is_.

* * *

Rogers is charismatic, you’ll give him that, and you suppose that’s how he was able to achieve the position of Governor, but his kindly words are veiled in deception.

Edward’s warnings about him come in handy as you’re forced night after night to sit with him at dinner, forced to listen to his haughty words about the pirates of Nassau, his promises to your father that those _responsible_ – he shoots you a sympathetic look you can’t understand – would be brought to justice.

“Truthfully,” says Rogers, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes as he casts his gaze over you, sitting quietly and picking at the table with your nails. “I believe we were lucky in gaining Captain Hornigold’s aid. If not for him, we would have never found the opportunity to retrieve your daughter from those filthy heathens.”

Under the table, your free hand tugs at the skirts of your dress, clenches and unclenches as you search for a distraction, as you try to keep your expression as blank as possible.

 _I will not give them the satisfaction_ , you think, _I will not_.

You already had your suspicions about Hornigold but Roger’s words only confirm what you were almost sure of; Ben took the pardon.

Your chair scrapes along the floor as you get to your feet and storm from the room.

It’s been a month.

 _No more tears_ , you think, as you slam your door behind you. You lean heavily against it, blinking rapidly, listening to the heavy footsteps of your guard as he steps into place on the other side. _He’s coming for me_.

* * *

The Benjamin slides into port on a bright and cheerfully sunny day, and the smile her captain wears makes you want to vomit.

At each of your shoulders stand two men in redcoats, standing at attention and ready for the slightest notion from you that you’re about to bolt. You’d snarled at your father when he’d gestured for them to follow you, close enough to grasp your elbows should need be, and you’d acted every bit the animal these men were believing you had become in Nassau.

“Captain Hornigold,” greets Governor Woodes Rogers, and you don’t miss the way Hornigold’s eyes glance to you, almost warily. “I am glad you could join us.”

Ben Hornigold inclines his head. “There were…” he pauses and you notice his eyes on you again, “complications.”

You interest is piqued but your expression remains carefully blank, devoid of any emotion to maintain the indifferent mask you’ve so excellently crafted after your return to the tedium of Kingston.

You hear none of the words muttered between Hornigold and Rogers but the importance of it is evident, because your father is forcing you back to the house on the hill without forcing his way into their conversation first and _thanking_ Hornigold for all he’s done.

You turn your back on the two men willingly, before your guards can grab your elbows and force you, and hold your head high with as much dignity as you can muster. Hornigold’s arrival in Kingston changes nothing, you reason, nothing at all.

Another month has passed by with still no sign of Edward. The first you’ve been allowed to leave the house was to come and greet Hornigold – _traitor_ , your mind hisses, and you glance over your shoulder at him, your scowl murderous when he risks meeting your eyes, _traitor_ – but you’ve watched the harbour from your room every day since and there’s been no sign.

 _No more tears_ , you tell yourself once more, as your bedroom door closes gently behind you and your guard takes up his post.

* * *

Purely by accident you’ve discovered the change in your guard’s shifts at your door. Logic and reason outweigh the overwhelming desire you feel to run.

You’d heard their voices when you’d woken from a restless sleep, woken by what you thought was Edward, shouting for you, fighting off hordes of men who sought to kill him.

You’d thrashed awake, certain you had to save him, to hear nothing but the silence of your room and then- the creaking of the floorboards outside.

At first you’d thought it a figment of your imagination, something your fatigued and lost mind had made up to make you feel better about your situation continuing to descend, but then you’d woken at the same time the next night, and the next and the next after that, all to the same sound.

You hear muffled voices, boots on the hard wood floor, and then silence again.

Another month passes like this, with you preparing, listening, _planning_. On a Wednesday, the guard at the door walks away, leaving your door unattended for – _hopefully_ – thirty seconds. It’s enough, _just_ enough, and you’re so ready to take the chance, so sick of _waiting_.

All you have are gowns; your father must have raided your closets for breeches and shirts and boots and removed them. It complicates matters – your dresses are by no means light, and you’ve no doubt in your mind that this venture, this _daring escape_ , will necessitate running.

The best you can do is loosen your corset strings and hope you can move fast enough to escape.

You’re not sure how you know to wake up at the same time every night – _morning?_ – but you’re not going to question it; perhaps someone up there is finally taking pity on you. Or perhaps it’s a sign, you think, a touch hopefully, that Edward’s on his way to you.

After all, the last time you staged your daring escape, the Jackdaw was in the harbour, waiting, getting ready to set sail.

 _History repeats itself_ , you think and your touch of hope flares.

The heavy footfalls from the guard’s boots get further and further away from your door. You scramble for the handle, tugging open the door, dread pooling in your gut (what if it’s locked? What if they’re still ahead of me?), and it swings open easily and you can _breathe_.

That hideous painting hangs across from your door still and the hallway is empty.

You close the door as quickly as you can, wince at the soft thump that sounds so much louder than usual, and take off down the empty hall, never considering once where your guards might be, which direction they’ve gone in –

The next corner you turn you freeze, wide-eyed and _caught, shit, caught_ , because the two men are standing there, equally as alarmed, hands on their weapons and a single absurd thought crosses your mind, overlapping everything else; _they’re going to kill me_.

You turn on your heel and all but throw yourself down the staircase, no thoughts other than _run, run, run_ in your head now, and the heels of your boots are unbearably loud on the wooden floor, feel intolerably louder than the outraged shouts of your pursuers.

They’ll have woken the whole house now, you think fearfully, and you need to act fast.

The door handles are cold in your grasp and newly polished and you’re so damn _close_ –

Arms are around your waist and tugging you back and away and they’re unfamiliar and strong and your two guards are still so far away, it can’t be them –

“Easy now, lass,” says Benjamin Hornigold, setting you on your feet, keeping his hands firmly on your arms, blocking your escape.

“ _No_!”

The word is wrenched from your throat as you’re handed over to the two men once more, as Hornigold watches from the door, as Rogers appears from the hallway to his right, as your father comes to stand at the top of the suitcase. He surveys the scene with muted fury and his eyes never leave your face as you’re forcibly pulled by him and back to your room.

You hear the lock turn as you lie in a heap on the floor, finally succumbing to inconsolable tears, allowing yourself to feel the crippling sadness and helplessness that has grabbed hold of you and refused to release you since your capture at Nassau.

You pull yourself slowly to the balcony doors, to the breaking dawn casting its golden rays over the harbour, and your hand rests against the glass, against your barrier to freedom. Your body is wracked once more with wrenching sobs that have you gasping for breath and slamming your fist against the door, desperate, angry, rueful, and hopelessness truly begins to set in.

You lift your eyes one last time, blinking rapidly to try and clear your blurry vision, rubbing at your tearstained cheeks with your dress, and your eyes scan the port once more, searching, aching, _pleading_.

Right before you turn away, you see it: a lone ship, sailing with the wind, sails full and plump. You rub at your eyes, wiping away the tears still flowing, and press both hands against the glass, waiting, watching, _wishing_. You’re so far away, you’re broken and crumbling to pieces, and you’re not sure if you’re vulnerable and looking for some hope, but you _know_ that ship – _you’d know it anywhere_.

The Jackdaw has arrived in Kingston.


	4. Tearaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your father and Jonah take steps to ensure you are not reunited with Edward but he's _Edward Kenway_ and he's a pirate and an assassin. How could they believe it would actually work?

You’ve seen him, sheltered by the shadows of the high walls of the house on the hill, hood drawn and studying it coolly.

You’ve been confined to your room, to locked doors and meals taken in silence, with only your single guard standing at the door and watching like a hawk for any sign of suspicious activity.

You’re ready to leave, ready for Edward to break into this prison of yours and take you away, ready for the adventures you used to have before. You’re ready to return to the Jackdaw and her crew, ready to return to Adéwalé and his wise words, his country of Jackdaw.

But more than anything, you’re ready to return to Edward.

You can’t tell if he’s seen you or not; he’s still so far away, so out of reach. The closest you’ve come is your hand on the glass pane of the balcony doors, tracing his jaw and trying to recall what his hands on your waist felt like. It’s been so long without him and you’re so grateful he arrived when he did because you’re not sure what you might have done if he’d been even a day too late.

You shudder; it does not bode to think about.

You’re going out of your mind trapped in here and for all your anger about being forced to meals with your father and Rogers and Hornigold, you find you’re missing it now, missing the opportunity to gently gloat in their faces, to smugly look them in the eyes with the knowledge that you won’t be here for much longer.

The sea is particularly beautiful today, all smooth and crystal clear, and you wonder if it’s a sign; perhaps you were always supposed to leave today. Perhaps some god up there has blessed you. Perhaps this is some stroke of luck at last.

Your hands clench in the throw tossed over the bottom of your bed; until you’re free, you’ve nothing better to do than sit here, sit staring at the sea and the beach, at the people who walk along the shore front, at the soldiers in red who prowl the garden below. It had been so easy to leave before, so easy to escape, now every route seems covered.

The only way out, you think, if Edward wasn’t here, if Edward wasn’t coming for you, would be…

You stop yourself from thinking it. You have not reached those sort of desperate measures yet and nor do you expect to. You’ve seen Edward’s skill first-hand – if anyone can rescue you, if anyone can remove you from this hell hole, it’s _him_.

Your father doesn’t have the common courtesy to knock anymore; he throws open the door and strides into your room, with the countenance that before would have demanded your attention and respect. Now it demands only a roll of the eyes and a quiet scoff. 

You do not tear your gaze away from the balcony doors nor the shining blue sea – from here, it’s easy to imagine that every set of sails you see might be the Jackdaw, docked so arrogantly by her captain, right below the nose of those who would see him hang for living a free life.

“Get up,” orders your father impatiently.

When you do not move, he grasps your arm just short of painful and hauls you to your feet, and you gasp more from shock than pain. You feel braver now, braver even than before, when you’d fearlessly chosen another seat at the dinner table, when you refused to back down from your father’s biting words, because Edward is _near_ and his presence in Kingston provides you with the courage you need.

You’re dragged from your room and past your lone guard, who does not tear his gaze away from the wall opposite, and waiting for the two of you at the door is someone you had wished to never see again.

“Sir,” Jonah greets, with a stiff incline of his head and hardly a gaze towards you. Governor Rogers stands to the left, surveying the three of you coolly, and dread pools in your stomach. You’re suddenly very nervous and unsure, thinking that these men know something that you don’t.

Hornigold is nowhere to be found.

“You’re sure it’s him?” asks your father and hope flares in your chest, coupled just as equally with fear.

“My informants,” starts Rogers, approaching the three of you slowly, and you’ve never been afraid of him, not until now, “are very reliable.”

Your father nods to Jonah just as stiffly as his grip on your arm, and your heart is racing and you’re shouting before you even realise it, because they know Edward is here too – who else can they be talking about? – and your chance of escape is slipping through your fingers again.

Jonah nods to a man standing to his right and your father hands you over with a rough shove in his direction and you’ve little time to appreciate your freedom before you’ve been grabbed again. You thrash, throwing your weight around as much as you dare, but this man holds you more firmly than your father did, strong enough to bruise.

“Do what you must,” says your father coldly, “to ensure that pirate does not regain my daughter.”

“You’ll have to kill me,” you snarl at once, because if the opportunity arises for you to get to Edward, you’re going to take it, no matter what.

“That,” he replies easily, “is already an option.”

You’ve always known your father holds very little love for you but to hear him discuss the death of his only daughter so easily has you freezing in place, watching him with eyes wide and thinking that you really shouldn’t be surprised.

“I hope he kills you,” you utter coldly, and if you’ve never looked like your father, you do now, all stony words and daggers for eyes.

He takes your words in his stride.

“Or mayhaps he will hang from the gallows and you will live with the knowledge that you brought the man you love to his death. Remove her.”

* * *

 

Jonah’s ship is no man-o-war but it’s certainly bigger than the Jackdaw, and while you’ve every confidence in Edward being able to take this hulking and ugly beast of a ship, you’re not sure how much damage she’ll take in the battle.

You’ve been thrown into a cell – the _same_ cell, you’re sure of it – and left there, just like the first time you were taken, months ago, but this time is different, this time you _know_ Edward is there. Edward is _close_ and _so far_ and _god_ you hope he’s already found a way into the house on the hill, that he’s already found out you’re not there anymore.

You’d tried so hard to find him as you were dragged to the docks, tried so hard to slow down your captors while you studied your surroundings but other than a suspicious looking boy with a red bandana, you hadn’t seen him. Hope has flared within you though and as you were dragged unwillingly onto Jonah’s ship, you had seen the Jackdaw, had seen the features of the bird carved onto the bowsprit, and though you might have been imagining it, you’re sure you saw Adéwalé at the helm.

You wrench at the bars of your cell, tugging wildly, but they do not budge. An angry scream leaves your lips, followed by a string of curse words one can only learn from spending close to a year surrounded by pirates, until eventually you tire yourself out. You sink to the floor, still grasping the cool metal in your hands, and on deck you hear orders being barked, snappish and urgent, but there’s no sound of battle, nothing to signify the ship has been boarded.

_Shit_ , you think, and then, frustrated and with an open-palmed smack to the bars, “ _Shit_!”

* * *

 

You must be sailing for a couple of hours _at least_ before you hear the shout, the shout that sets your heart fluttering and your hope soaring and you’re stumbling to your feet once more. You reach for the porthole over your cell, clawing at it with your fingers and stretching as much as you’re able, aching to see the ship, aching to see those white sails, that length of black fabric.

“Ship sighted, sir,” cries the voice above deck. “Brig! They’re flying the black!”

You can hear Jonah barking his orders as you lose your grip and slide to the floor of your cell, your hand hiding the smile that’s crossing your face and leaning heavily against the wall behind you. It has to be Edward, it _has to be,_ and you’re so crazily overjoyed that you start laughing right then and there.

It’s cut abruptly short by the sound of cannon fire from above deck; you can’t tell if it’s a warning shot or a retaliation to the chase. It’s a single shot, nothing that will deter Edward (you _know_ this, you’ve seen him take on worse and with worse odds, after all) but your heart skips a beat and your breath catches in your throat. Those same doubts you’ve always had are surfacing again; what if he decides you aren’t worth the trouble? What if he turns the Jackdaw away from the battle, away from the risk?

What if everything the two of you had means nothing at all?

As you sit there, your hand on your mouth and tears burning at your eyes, the Jackdaw retaliates.

The explosions sound far away at first, a distant bang followed by a whizzing and screams from above deck. You gasp, seized by terror and thoughts of _I’m on the damn ship, you fool_ and realisation dawns slowly; none of the cannonballs are hitting below deck, only above, at the crews and the masts – _slowing the ship down_.

And you start to pray, to anyone who will listen: _please, please, please_.

The ship lets out a great shuddering and a moan, and you hear the creaking of wood, the inevitable splash as the mast splits and crumbles. There are shouts from above, curses and screams, and you turn your gaze to the ceiling above you, curious and hopeful, and smiling genuinely.

_Freedom_ , you think gleefully, tearfully, _it is almost mine again_.

There’s a stomping of feet on the stairs, descending quickly and purposefully, and Jonah strides into view, haggard and furious looking. His boots are black and polished and each step has your smile faltering more and more. You recall your father’s words before you were dragged away – _that is already an option_.

“Are you here to kill me, Jonah?” you murmur, eyeing the flintlock held loosely in his hand with distrust. You’ve seen first-hand the lengths Jonah will go to in order to fulfil his orders and you know his loyalty to your father and to Rogers as well as you know your own to Edward.

“No,” he rumbles but it’s not convincing in the slightest. “But if your pirate lover comes down those steps, I will not hesitate.”

“Shouldn’t you be on deck with your crew?” you bait, gathering yourself slowly to your feet.

A couple of years ago, when the two of you were close, closer than you can hardly believe now, you would never have dreamed of acting like this before him. You would never have taunted him, never have threatened him or stood toe to toe with him. You had been close but Jonah’s loyalty to your father had always prevented any divulgence of secrets on your part.

There are shouts and gunshots above deck and you hear swords being drawn, men engaging each other in battle. Your heart is racing; you’re so close to freedom, so close to _Edward_ , and a cell door and an old friend with a pistol stand in your way.

You should scream. You should try and draw as much attention to yourself as possible, try to alert Edward, Adéwalé, _someone_ , that you’re down here. But your voice is frozen in your throat and you can hardly move save to push yourself further against the wall. There’s nowhere for you to hide, nowhere for you to avoid the bullet from that pistol, and as soon as boots touch the top of those stairs, you’re done for.

But your bravado does not falter, not once, and you remain smirking arrogantly, far more smugly than you think you ever have in your life.

“They can handle themselves,” Jonah says coldly. He’s listening intently to the fight above, as are you, and you imagine it is if for the same reason. You are waiting to hear the musical and roguish Welsh tones of the infamous Edward Kenway, _your_ Edward, who you haven’t seen in so long, who you’ve missed and doubted each as equally as the other.

“What a captain you are,” you muse aloud.

As subtly as possible, you try to search for somewhere to hide, for a weapon, _anything_. Your eyes flit nervously to the open door at the top of the stairs; as yet, no one has appeared, but the sounds of the fight have lessened. Edward is a master at this, at the art of taking ships and conquering them, and you can already imagine the scene; the crew on their knees, Edward prowling the line, the black flag fluttering in the wind high above him, ominous and threatening.

“Do not speak of things you know nothing of,” snarls Jonah. He approaches the cell doors, reaching for his belt and drawing out the keys. He reaches for you, grabbing your arm and tugging you roughly from your spot against the wall.

The pistol is pointing at the floor and Jonah is evidently distracted, listening to the cheering from above deck, cheering that is familiar to you. The Jackdaw has taken Jonah’s ship and crew while he hides away with you, idly threatening and cowardly, and you’re not about to let him use you for anything else.

You kick out immediately, catching him in the shin, and his enraged shout only fuels another hit from you and another, a punch to the jaw that makes your hand throb and a kick to the groin that has him doubling over at your feet. It’s gratifying to see him like this, after the betrayal at Nassau and the hissing words he’d spoken before.

He shouts your name, fury and rage, and you don’t need to wait for another sign that you should leave. He’s reaching for the pistol, dropped from his hand in your onslaught of untrained but effective hits, and you’re turning on the spot, reaching for the handrail, when instead you bump into another body.

“Easy, lass,” says a cool voice behind you, and when you turn you see _red_ , and really, you should have _known_ there was something strange about him. While everyone else had been confused, staring at you as you’d been dragged away, the boy you’d seen had been curious, thoughtful, and studious, and now you can see why. There’s a pistol in one hand, the aim true and steady on Jonah, and the other rests on your arm, gentle and not at all how you imagine. “I’m a friend.”

And the words are tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Is he here?”

His lips quirk. “Aye.” He nods towards the stairs; towards the blue sky you can see and the ripped white sails on the broken masts.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. Your smile is relieved and grateful but no words come out of your mouth; they can’t. There’s a lump in your throat at the possibility that this might finally be over, that you might finally be _free_ again.

It feels like you’re climbing a mountain as you take each step, closer and closer to the sun, to the heat on your face, closer and closer to Edward.

And when at last he sees you he’s charging over and sweeping you off your feet, breathing you in as much as you do him, exactly like you remember; sea salt and gun powder and rum. There’s blood on his clothes and in his hair but you don’t let go, even when you feel it on your skin, on your cheek, on your collarbone, your hands. Small discomforts mean nothing when it’s been so long since you’ve seen him.

“You’re really here,” you breathe, your hands clenching in the fabric under your fingers. “You’re _here_.”

“Aye, lass,” he returns gently. “I’m here.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, hiding the tears that have at once begun to fall, and Edward’s laughing in your ear, relieved and exhausted.

“I gave you my word, eh?” he murmurs and he draws away, takes your face in his hands and there are those eyes, blue, so _blue_ , and by _god_ , you have missed him. “I’d never let him keep you.”

Those words, said so long ago after his inevitable discovery of your identity, startle a laugh from you, watery and embarrassing. You wipe at your eyes, resting your hand longingly over his own that rest rough and calloused against your jaw, and suddenly it’s all become too much; you’ve been gone from each other for too long, without each other’s touch for far too long.

You lean forward, pressing your lips against his own, hungrily, desperately, and he gathers you in his arms and returns it just as fervently, just as longingly.

“Jaysus,” he murmurs, drawing away, leaning in again, as if he can’t get enough, “I’ve missed you.”

There will be more time for reunions later, you realise, because Jonah is being escorted onto deck, fizzing and glowering, and when his eyes land on you, he spits your name in a hateful voice, and spits at the wood at your feet. Edward presses you gently behind him, hiding you away when it’s unnecessary, but your grip on his arm is gentle and unworried. You’re here now, with him, free and safe once more, and Jonah isn’t a threat.

“Know him?” asks Edward and there’s a hostility to his voice that you recognise but haven’t heard in so long.

You take a long, hard look at Jonah, at the daggers in his eyes and the curling of his lip, and you reply, “No.”

* * *

 

The cabin is warm like you remember, messier than you remember, and here in Edward’s bed, wrapped up in his many blankets while he finishes looking over the reports of his fleet, you are content once more.

Edward refuses to let you out of his sight for now, distrustful of anyone he doesn’t know personally and those who haven’t proven themselves. His apology for Hornigold’s betrayal had been a difficult one, you know; Ben was a mentor to him and a friend, and he had been the last person Edward thought would turn on Nassau and those he had allied with.

Your realisations had been correct; Edward had asked Kidd to find and watch over you, and with the name he had referred absently to the bemused pirate with the red bandana. Furthermore, Kidd and Edward only became aware of your disappearance and Hornigold’s involvement because of _Vane_.

“I’ll have to thank him,” you had said, dizzy with the news.

“I’ve thanked him enough for us both,” Edward had said immediately. “Any thanks he’ll want from you, I’m not willing to let you give.”

The assumptions formed from those cryptic words are enough for you.

He sets down the last of his papers and the exhaustion you’d seen clear as day on his face seems to dissipate entirely as he looks up, fixing his sea blues on you. You can see the disbelief and the relief there, and you’d never once stopped to consider how bad things have been for Edward. You’ve been so busy dealing with your father and Hornigold and Rogers, trying to remain hopeful that Edward would come for you; you realise now, seeing how tired he looks, that things must have been just as hard for him.

“Come to bed,” you urge. “You look exhausted.”

“Not so bad as all that,” he says with a wry smile and a suggestive tilt of his head.

His smile is infectious, and you reach for his hand as he approaches the bed at last, drawing him towards you and kissing him quickly, affectionately, hoping that it indicates to him just how much you appreciate and _love_ him.

Edward didn’t have to come after you, you’ve long begun to accept that, but the mere fact that he did, that he promised you at all, tells you all you need to know about your relationship. You don’t need an exchanging of vows with him, don’t need an exchanging of the l-word either; he’s proven himself already, proven your worth to him.

You settle against his chest when he finally kicks off his boots and lowers himself onto the mattress, savouring the warmth you’ve missed for so long. No words are spoken for a long time and Edward seems content to just hold you close. You wonder if he’s afraid to let you go, afraid that the second he turns his back you’ll disappear again.

You know that feeling all too well because you feel it yourself.

What if you were to separate again and your father was to find some way to get you back? What if Hornigold appeared again, fleeing once more into oblivion but this time taking you with him? Worse still, you fear, what if your father was to send someone to finish what Jonah started? The memory of he you once called friend, standing before you with that pistol at his side is haunting, and now you’re more than aware that your father’s words were not a bluff said to cower you.

He is willing to have you murdered if you will not return to him.

The thought has you freezing in place, turning your gaze fearfully to the floor as your palms sweat and your stomach churns. It’s unbearable, the idea that your father would rather you be dead than happy. Aren’t father’s supposed to protect their daughters? Isn’t that how it goes? Why have you drawn the short straw on this?

Edward murmurs your name, on the cusp of sleep, and you’re reminded of his exhaustion, of all he did to find you, of the lengths he will go to ensure it does not happen again. It’s comforting to know and while you still fear your father – and isn’t that ironic, you think, that you fear him more now than you did when you were standing before him – you know Edward will not let this happen again, not without a fight at least.

He murmurs your name again and looks down at you curiously. You can see the concern on his face and you’re shaking your head before he can say a word.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, and you snuggle in closer, holding him a fraction tighter, telling yourself _he’s here_ and _it’s over now_ and _everything will be okay_. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [here](http://romancingthecreed.tumblr.com/) :)


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